


under her skin, over the moon

by gwenwrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, First Love, Pre-Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, The Burrow (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:54:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26990965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenwrites/pseuds/gwenwrites
Summary: In the few letters Ron had sent that summer, he warned Hermione about the chaos his family brewed, along with the state of their house. She expressed nothing but joy and excitement in return.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	under her skin, over the moon

Ron hurried down the stairs, wincing as each one creaked and cracked loudly. He called goodbye to his mother as he ran out the front door, knowing she’d hate the way he accidentally let it slam shut behind him. His father sat in the driver’s seat with Ginny riding shotgun, grinning through the window. 

“That’s my seat,” he said. 

“I can’t hear you!” she replied, feigning deafness pointing to her ear. Too rushed to start an argument, he opened the back door and slid inside. At least if he felt childish enough he could kick the back of Ginny’s seat. Mr. Weasley whistled a happy tune as he pulled out of the drive and trundled down the potholed road; he enjoyed all contact with muggles, and was ready for another enlightening experience in meeting Hermione’s parents. “Maybe we could stay for tea,” he’d mused in the kitchen earlier, which sounded like an awful idea to both Ron and Ginny. As they rumbled on, the roads slowly became less decrepit as they sped toward civilization. Ron absentmindedly checked his appearance in the dim reflection of the window. He needed a haircut; it was growing a little longer than he liked it, flopping onto his forehead and slightly past the nape of his neck. It felt odd, but reminded him a bit of Bill’s hair. Fred and George had teased him about its similarity and his mother begged him to cut it, but he refused. Now he wondered if Hermione would tease him for it. Like she had room to talk, considering her unruly frizz and curls. 

He tuned into the conversation in the front seat. “Hermione said in her letter that she’d tutor me in potions this summer,” Ginny said. 

Ron scoffed. “You really want to study during the summer? And start feeling miserable early?”

“Studying isn’t miserable,” she huffed. “We’re of a tiny percentage of people with the opportunity and ability to study subjects that the rest of mankind will never experience.”

“Did you lift that from one of her letters, too?” Ron asked. 

Mr. Weasley shook his head. “Quiet, both of you. Nobody’s expecting you to start your studies early Ron, but I think it’s great that Ginny wants to get ahead on her courses.”

“Guess so,” Ron mumbled. He imagined Ginny and Hermione spending the entire summer in the same room, turning pages and filling countless sheets of parchment with notes. It was maddening. He’d hope he’d at least have some time with her, that she wouldn’t spend the entire vacation with his little sister. They were friends, after all. Even if they hadn’t spent very much time with just the two of them. 

The thought made his stomach flip. Maybe it’d be best if she spent her time with Ginny most days. What if it was awkward, just the two of them? It’d only be a little over a month, and then Harry would get there. It’d be fine, he told himself, letting his head rest against the window. Ginny and Mr. Weasley bickered about directions in the front seat as he drifted in and out of consciousness, waking up each time expecting to already be at her doorstep. 

“Ron, we’re a block away,” Ginny said. “Are you seriously still asleep?”

“Hm?” He mumbled, blinking awake. The scenery had changed from fields and hills to rows of identical houses. He’d even slept as they sped through the suburbs of London. He’d tossed and turned the night before, unable to stay asleep for more than an hour at a time. Sitting up, he smoothed down his hair, wishing bitterly that he’d had it cut like his mother suggested. 

“This must be the place,” Mr. Weasley said, slowly pulling the car into the drive. “And we got here all without magic. Muggles really are a wonder, their navigational skills must be absolutely .”

Ginny rolled her eyes in the rearview mirror at Ron, but he was too distracted to do anything besides raise his eyebrows. He knew what was about to happen: his father would seem like a nutter, he and Ginny would be embarrassed, and Hermione’s parents were going to be completely bewildered. To Mr. Weasley, muggles were more like fascinating aliens than anything else, living within their own mysterious culture and world. He only meant to show respect and interest, but could often go too far in his questioning and purported knowledge. 

And that was only their first meeting. Soon enough she’d see the Burrow, which was the complete opposite of everything surrounding them. Hermione’s neighborhood was built upon strict rectangles of grass and careful arrays of windflowers and begonias, arranged in artificial patterns. The Burrow was surrounded by daisies and thistle, dotted with patches of forgotten projects and mislaid scrap. Not to mention that the house itself wouldn’t stand without the charms placed upon it. Each level was built out as more and more Weasleys were born. His parents claimed that they bought the materials for the added rooms, but Ron suspected that they’d picked up the unused wood and bricks wherever they could find it. 

Well, there was nothing he could do. In his few letters he’d sent that summer, he warned Hermione about the chaos his family brewed, along with the state of their house. She expressed nothing but joy and excitement in return.

“I can’t wait to experience domestic life in a wizarding household,” Hermione said. As if she was going to live with a host family in Italy or something. At least she couldn’t claim that Ron didn’t warn her. 

Mr. Weasley rapped his knuckles against the door, his children standing awkwardly beside him. Hermione’s mother opened the door much too quickly as if she’d been standing poised behind it, smiling as broadly as Mr. Weasley. She didn’t resemble her daughter very much aside from the color of her hair and eyes, both a soft shade of chestnut. Her father also had straight hair, which seemed at odds with Hermione’s volume of curls. 

“It’s so lovely to see you all again,” Mrs. Granger said. “How is your family? I’ve made tea, if you’d like to have some before you’re off.”

Mr. Weasley beamed, delighted at the prospect. Hurried footsteps rushed down the stairs. Hermione popped into view, a suitcase in hand. Ron noticed a large trunk already sitting near the doorway, undoubtedly full of her school items. 

She grinned, revealing her sparkling white teeth. Her hair was as unruly as ever, although it seemed like an attempt had been made to smooth it down. Ron felt an unusual warmth grow in his chest as he took note of her clothes, which were nothing like her school uniform or anything else he’d seen her in: white trainers and blue jeans, with a yellow blouse dotted in red flowers. The scrunchie on her wrist and rolled up socks made her look completely mundane. Ron had never seen a witch look more like a muggle; he imagined she could fit in at any secondary school in the country.

“Hi,” she huffed, slightly out of breath from hauling the luggage behind her. “I’ve never been so late to start packing for a trip. I only started three days ago.” All three Weasleys laughed. Ron’s stomach untwisted itself easily; Hermione was speaking as if they hadn’t been apart for a month at all, as if it was completely normal that she was coming to stay with them. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Granger shook hands, chatting easily as they shuffled from the hall to the sitting room. Ron had a feeling he knew where Hermione’s neatness and preparedness stemmed from: her mother had already laid out scones, tea sandwiches, and chocolate biscuits, along with a delicate porcelain teapot in a flowery tea cosy. 

“I know you shouldn’t stay long, if you want to get back before supper,” Mrs. Granger said. “Just have a few bites, you all must be hungry.” They thanked her before taking a snack each. Ron enjoyed a cucumber sandwich, 

“Dentistry is a fascinating profession,” Mr. Weasley said, noting the diplomas and certificates on the walls. “I’m aware that other muggles often fear you?”

Ron’s stomach twisted once again at the word “muggle.” But Hermione’s parents laughed easily, taking no offense. She’d must’ve explained what the word meant to them.

“Some people don’t like going to the dentist, it’s true,” Mr. Granger explained. “But we hope they don’t dislike the dentists themselves.”

“Of course, of course.” Mr. Weasley nodded placidly, as if he’d already known it to be a fact. “It’s not a dentist’s fault that the muggle methods for maintaining teeth are often painful and invasive.” 

Ginny turned red, casting her eyes towards the rug. Ron felt his shoulders turn inward as he nudged his father and tried to fake a laugh. 

Mrs. Granger tried to quickly change the subject. “Hermione has told us so much about your wonderful family. She said you all had beautiful red hair, but I didn’t know the extent until now!” Ginny smiled once more, brightened by the compliment. 

“And Ron,” she continued. “I’ve heard you’re extremely witty, and very brave. You and your friend Harry are most of what Hermione writes home about.”

It was Ron’s turn to blush. “Hermione is the best student in our year. She’s a great help in potions and transfiguration. Everyone thinks she’s bloody brilliant, smarter than any Ravenclaw.” He didn’t mention to what extent Hermione had helped him on occasion. She occasionally wrote and fixed parts of his papers, and whispered instructions to him in class. It was only then he noticed how Hermione had turned her face down, intently staring at the biscuits as if deciding which one to pick up. 

“Hermione is quite courageous herself,” Mr. Weasley added. “Just last year, Ron told me she-”

“-She’s great,” Ginny cut him off, catching Hermione’s eyes flash in fear. “Thank you so much for letting her stay with us before the World Cup.” 

“Oh, of course!” Mrs. Granger said. “Hermione has told us all about Quidditch, it seems like a wonderful sport. You play Quidditch, don’t you Ron?” They discussed the game for a while, Mr. Granger making occasional references to its similarities to football. Ron didn’t really see any, aside from the use of spherical objects, but pretended to agree regardless. 

“How long does it take to reach the Burrow?” Hermione asked.

“About four hours,” Mr. Weasley replied, glancing at the clock above the fireplace. “We might have to leave soon to be home for supper.” He seemed genuinely sorrowful as he ate a final biscuit and stood. 

“He’d stay here for months if he could,” Ginny whispered to him. They shuffled out of the sitting room and into the hall again. Ron hurried to pick up Hermione’s school trunk, shocked by its weight. His must be only half the weight. Pretending the weight gave him no strain, he lugged it to the car. 

Hermione chatted cheerily on the drive, hair mussed by the half-open window. Her skin was a tinge darker than it’d been only a month before. A tan suited her, she looked healthier and brighter than she even did during the school year. 

“I spent some time with my old friends,” she said. “They feel sorry for me because I had to go off to boarding school.”

“Oh yeah, what a shame,” Ginny snorted. She laughed in response. 

Hermione turned to look at Ron. “What have you been up to? Your responses to my letters are painfully short.”

“Oh! I, uh…. Play Quidditch a lot, with Fred and George.”

“And me! When they’re not being idiots.” Ginny added. “But Ron is sleeping most of the 

time.”

“I’m not!”

Mr. Weasley glanced at him in the rearview mirror, eyes sympathetic. “It happens to

many adolescents. It’s because you’re growing, sometimes all the sleep in the world isn’t enough.” 

He felt himself go red as Hermione stifled a laugh. In the pit of his stomach, he felt as though it’d be a long, hot, humiliating summer. Better yet, one of his best friends would be there to witness it.

* * *

“Did you get lost?” Mrs. Weasley called out, standing at the door of the Burrow. “You said you’d be home long before sundown.” Hermione stepped out of the car and stared at their home in awe. Wild sprouting grass covered the lawn, occasionally interrupted with piles of materials that seemed to match the wood and brick of the higher levels of the house. A rusted cauldron in the yard was overrun with honeysuckle and plump hens pecked their way through the dappled patches of flowers. Ron wished he knew what she was thinking as she looked around.

“No, not lost. A few twists and turns, that’s all…” Mr. Weasley said. 

Mrs. Weasley’s annoyance with Mr. Weasley was quickly forgotten when she spotted Hermione. She hurried to envelop her as if she were her own daughter. 

“I’m so happy you’re here,” she said. “You must be hungry? Come in, everything’s already prepared.”

Most of the family was clustered in the sitting room; Ron could tell that Fred and George were impatiently waiting to eat, but they welcomed Hermione all the same. She beamed as she looked around the house, apparently admiring the overstuffed furniture, frayed rugs, and battered banister. The expression was similar to Harry’s look of wonder when he visited the Burrow for the first time. He couldn’t quite understand why they seemed to admire it so much, seeing how other pureblood families mocked them for their lack of wealth. Despite his bewilderment, he smiled as he watched her wander from the entrance to the kitchen, following Mrs. Weasley. 

“Outside, everyone!” she called. “The table’s already set. Fred, will you help me carry everything out?”

“You made me do it last time, too!” he responded.

“Fine. George, then.”

“Fred’s lying, I was the one helping last night.”

“Both of you, then!” she huffed. They stepped into the backyard, which was filled with the warm glow of the setting sun. Hermione sat on a mismatched chair, as Ron and Ginny settled down to eat on either side of her.

“It’s marvelous!” she said. “I’ve never seen a place as fascinating, even Hogwarts.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Ginny snorted.

“Well all the same, it’s wonderful.”

Everyone asked Hermione about the rest of her summer as they ate, while Fred and George retreated into their own whispered conversation. Ron was sure they were planning some sort of trick or ploy, but had no focus left to eavesdrop on them. He felt oddly proud of Hermione as she happily discussed her studies at Hogwarts and various aspects of the Ministry’s current successes and scandals. She melted into their world as much as she fit into the suburbs of London. 

Mrs. Weasley dished out a blackberry cobbler for dessert, along with sea salt ice cream. Hermione showered her with compliments on the food.

“My wand does most of the work, dear,” she responded, but Ron could tell she was pleased. Seeing his family and home through Hermione’s eyes made their conversation more interesting, the meal tasted better, and their home looked a little less chaotic. Spending a couple of months like this really wouldn’t be bad, even if Harry wasn’t there.

Hermione offered to help clear the dishes, and Ron hurried to follow.

“Maybe you’ll be more helpful now that you have friends around,” she muttered. Ron ignored her and offered to help Hermione carry extra plates. 

* * *

Ginny and Hermione shared a small room, across the slanted hall from Ron’s. Even though he had no idea what they were talking about, he felt a pang of jealousy and loneliness to hear them giggling and whispering to each other. Once again, he felt torn between wishing Harry was there and being glad that he wasn’t yet. He was his best friend, and Ron would readily die for him if he had to. But when he was with Harry, it was easy to melt into the background of his own daily life. Usually, he didn’t mind it, and Harry was quick to remind him that he’d probably be dead already if it weren’t for Ron and Hermione’s loyalty. And yet, his own mother treated Harry like he was her favorite son whenever she saw him. She loved him so much that she sent him a Weasley sweater every Christmas. His was always maroon.

Ron wouldn’t mind a summer where his mother could dote on him and he could play Quidditch with his siblings without feeling jealous. And maybe he could have a little more of Hermione’s attention, as she wasn’t helping them solve mysteries and puzzle their way out of trouble, if Ginny didn’t steal her away all the time. 

He felt a pang of guilt imagining what awful treatment Harry was experiencing at the hands of the Dursleys. _He’ll be with us soon enough,_ he reminded himself. The Quidditch world cup would only be in a few weeks time, and then they’d be a trio once again.

When Ron came downstairs, Hermione was already sitting at the kitchen table, a book spread open by her heaping plate of bacon and eggs. He stood in the doorway for a moment, noticing how her hair created a fuzzy halo around her head, unruly yet cloud-like. 

“Ron!” Her neck suddenly snapped up. “Why didn’t you say something?” 

“Just got here,” he mumbled, heat rising in his cheeks. “Where’s mum?” 

“She went to collect eggs, which I offered to help with. I think she’s making French toast.” 

“That means she likes you,” 

“Really?” Hermione brightened. 

“Oh yeah, she always makes it when her favorites come around. She’s made it for Harry a dozen times by now.” 

Hermione was still beaming when Ms. Weasley returned, her basket filled with baby blue eggs.

“You know what you can help me with, Hermione?” She asked, pulling bowls from the cabinet. “After breakfast, could you and Ron pick bilberries from beside the brook? Ginny can go along too; it’s not too far.” 

“Of course! I’m sure Ron knows the way?”

“He’s been a thousand times by now. I’m thinking of making a pie, and some jam if I have the time.” 

“I’m happy to help,” Hermione said, and Ron knew that she meant it. He helped set the table, grateful that his mother didn’t mention how he usually avoided the chore. It seemed wrong to appear lazy in front of their guest. 

The French toast was as decadent as ever, crisp on the outside and deliciously soft on the inside. They barely spoke as they ate piece after piece, though Ron tried to avoid eating like a starving orphan. It seemed to be her pet peeve at Hogwarts; if he was caught with a chicken drumstick in each hand she would smack his arm until one fell from his grasp. In front of Mrs. Weasley, though, she seemed almost angelic. Hermione always behaved in front of figures of authority, but she seemed especially on her best behavior for a woman who wasn’t even a professor. 

“Are you all going to play Quidditch with us?” Fred asked. Ginny instantly brightened up. It was rare that the boys allowed her to play without incessant threats and pleas. 

“I’m sending Ron and Hermione to pick berries for me,” Mrs. Weasley said. “They shouldn’t go after it gets too hot.”

“I’ll play,” Ginny said. Fred and George exchanged a look.

“Why not?” they both said at the same time. Ron smiled softly as he finished his final bite of French toast. After helping pile the dishes aside the sink, they set out on their way. 

* * *

“How far is the brook?”

Ron shrugged. “Three kilometers or so. I’ve never really thought about it.”

She sighed. “I should’ve worn better shoes.” Ron looked down to glimpse her sandals. They seemed odd on her, when she always wore snow boots or oxfords on Hogwarts grounds. All of her clothes seemed out of place on her frame: jean shorts and another flowing blouse, this one with short sleeves and buttons down the front. They carried large woven baskets in each hand, ready to be filled with fruit. 

The grass on either side of the dirt path was dead, bleached to a light yellow in the sun. Wheat swayed in the wind with the lightest of breezes. Hermione wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. 

“At least we can wade in the water to cool off,” he said.

Hermione snorted. “You should be worried about yourself. You’re turning scarlet in the heat.”

“Oh shut up,” he said, receiving another haughty laugh in reply. It wasn’t _his_ fault the Weasleys were cursed with skin paler than milk. 

The path sloped downhill slightly, and a cluster of trees became visible in the distance. They hurried towards the brook, craving the feeling of water between their toes and lapping at their ankles. They both rushed to toss their shoes away to splash into the water.

“It’s cold!” Hermione yelped. 

“What did you expect?”

She let out a long breath, tilting her head up towards the trees. “Now it feels good.”

Ron watched her wade a little deeper into the water, until it reached halfway up her calves. 

“Are you just going to stand there?” she asked, catching his eye suspiciously. He hoped his skin’s reddish glow from the sun hid the heat rising to his cheeks as he hurried to step further into the brook. She spun in a slow circle with her arms stretched out, scanning her surroundings as if she were committing them to memory. 

“It’s gorgeous,” she noted. Ron focused his eyes on the burbling water underneath him. The thickets of bilberries grew on the other side of the brook. He turned around to collect their baskets from the edge and wade towards the plants. He could tell that they were perfect after picking just one; their skin felt thin and delicate. Some seemed dark blue, but the ripest were a deep black. Ron picked them carefully, hoping they would not become mush on their walk back to the burrow. 

Though they worked in silence, it didn’t feel awkward at all. Ron’s fears were wrong after all. They didn’t need Harry or Ginny there to act as a counterweight between them. The realization made him smile to himself as he pulled berries from their thin branches. She and Ron filled their baskets to the brim, eating a berry here and there as they pleased. The corners of Hermione’s mouth were tinged blue. He nearly opened his mouth to tease her, only to stop himself. It caused a strange feeling in his chest, as if his ribcage were expanding to allow space for larger lungs, a larger heart. 

Hermione found a smooth rock to sit on, letting her feet skim the surface of the water. “Let’s wait a few minutes before heading back.”

“Alright,” Ron said, absentmindedly picking up a rock to toss back into the current.

“Will you come sit down? I don’t want to watch you play with stones.” 

Ron waded towards her and slid onto the small rock beside her. Their thighs were nearly touching as he kicked at the water to splash her legs. 

“Stop it!” she yelped, smacking his shoulder. Ron flailed to keep his balance on the ledge. 

“I’ll push you in,” he threatened. 

“I’ll kill you.”

“You’d be expelled!”

“Only if they _caught_ me.” she replied with feigned seriousness. They started laughing and fell back into comfortable silence once more, watching their feet slowly kick at the water. Sun filtered through the trees, dappling their faces with patches of shadow and light. She edged closer to him until their shoulders were barely touching. She felt warm against him, as if the sunlight were seeping out of the pores of her skin. 

Briefly, he wondered how the scene would change if Harry was with them. They’d be talking more, laughing more, even splashing each other in the water instead of staying at its edge. Sometimes, Harry felt like the connection between them, the knot that held their strings together. But then, as just the two of them, it felt as if they were woven together instead. 

“Should we head back soon?” Hermione asked, her voice a hushed tone. 

“Let’s wait a little longer.”

* * *

Ginny, Fred, and George’s whoops and jeers could be heard long before they saw them.

“Who’s winning?” Hermione asked.

Ron tilted his head, listening closer. “Mmm… Fred, I think.”

As they approached the Burrow, they caught sight of the three hovering on their brooms, a quaffle bouncing between them. 

“Ron!” Ginny cried. “Finally! Get up here!”

George scoffed, “you need _his_ help?” 

“Shut up!” 

“I’m coming, just give me a minute,” Ron replied. Usually, he jumped at the chance to play Quidditch with Ginny and the twins. Hermione took his basket of bilberries on her arm.

“I’ll read and watch you play.” 

“You don’t want to join in?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” 

Mrs. Weasley happily accepted the berries, already setting about to prepare the jars for jam. Ron hurried upstairs to grab his broom; he wanted to play as well as possible to catch Hermione’s attention. At least his siblings were probably tired out, which would give him a slight advantage. 

* * *

They filled their days with games and chores; Hermione always kept a book close by her side. The heat left them in a haze, leading them to lay quilts under the old ash tree behind the Burrow. They stretched out under its generous shade, letting conversations die in their mouths and thoughts to drift away like wisps of clouds. Occasionally they’d find a burst of energy and play Quidditch before collapsing again, their legs like jelly and sweat beading on their necks. 

Ron let his eyes fall on Hermione too often, too entranced to remember to look away. Either she didn’t notice much, or didn’t care. Sometimes she even smiled when their eyes met, dispelling any awkwardness. They were closer than ever. 

Ron even started reading with Hermione and Ginny, when he could think of nothing else to do. Hermione was quite pleased, until she realized that he was reading _A Comprehensive History of Quidditch in Ireland._

“I have every book we need for this year with me,” she said. “You could choose any of them.”

“But then it wouldn’t be fun anymore.” 

She scoffed. “It’s not about _fun,_ Ron, it’s about preparing for our futures.”

“I know, I know. But it’s summer!”

“As if you care much more in autumn, or winter, or spring.” Ginny muttered. 

“Piss off.”

Hermione snorted. “Maybe it’s not so bad to be an only child after all.”

Even if he pretended to be annoyed, he wondered if he’d ever been more relaxed. He-who-must-not-be-named seemed like a distant fairytale, a story told to scare young wizards into being empathetic. Time would stretch out for them endlessly, allowing them to do whatever they pleased for as long as they liked. 

One hazy afternoon, Ron gave up on his solo Quidditch practice to join Hermione and his sister. He laid down on his back, closing his eyes and enjoying the feeling of sun pouring onto his face. Without sitting up, he reached out his arm to find a paperback tossed among schoolbooks, He opened it to the middle and placed it over his face. 

“You’re a dork.” Ginny said. He nearly kicked his leg out in surprise when he felt someone rest their head on him.

“At least he’s of some use.” 

Ron let himself bask in the closeness and comfort of such casual touch. It wasn’t very pleasant in the physical sense, her head was heavy and her hair tickled when she moved, but that hardly mattered.

Hermione and Ginny’s hushed murmurs in the room across the hall often lulled him to sleep. They were closer than they’d ever been before. No part of his family made him feel ashamed. Hermione instantly adjusted to the chaos, shooting retorts at Fred and George and helping Mrs. Weasley with anything she needed. She even explained minutiae about muggle life that he loved to hear. Even this wasn’t embarrassing anymore.

* * *

Ron often woke in the middle of the night with his skin crawling. His nightmares often slipped away before he could remember them, but this night was different. He remembered the horror, if nothing else. Thousands of spiders crawled across him until he couldn’t breathe, his throat and lungs filling with tiny legs and deadly venom. Shivering despite the heat, Ron gingerly tip-toed across the cold wooden floor. He couldn’t stay in his same tiny bedroom with disgust churning in his stomach. Slipping out of his doorway, he avoided every creaky board and stepped in the hall and down the stairs, the soles of his feet nimbly carrying him over them without a second thought. 

Crisp night air washed over him, taking with it the pit in his stomach. Barefoot, he walked over the dewy grass, standing still underneath the ash tree. Its gnarled trunk and lush leaves looked so different in the night. The half moon cast odd shadows over the yard, pools of void in a landscape of darkness. And yet, Ron felt no unease in being alone in the dark. The Burrow stood like a marred giant, crooked and watchful. Even if it was naïve, he wanted to believe that nothing could harm them there. 

“Ron?” a voice murmured, from towards the house. It was unmistakably Hermione. She stood a few yards from the back door, a silhouette of frizzy hair and thin limbs.

“What are you doing awake?” he asked.

“That’s what I should be asking you,” she huffed.

“You first.”

“Fine. I was reading, and I meant to go to bed earlier, but the next chapter was about--” she stopped. “Now why are _you_ awake?”

While trying to come up with an excuse, he realized that he’d much rather tell the truth. “I had a nightmare, thought some air might help.”

“What was it about?”

He grimaced. “It was about spiders. I have them all the time. It feels like they’re biting me or something.”

She frowned. “Have you tried any sleep potions or spells? I’m sure Mrs. Weasley--”

“It’s fine, I don’t need a cure or something.” He almost regretted saying anything at all; he was too old to be having nightmares about something as mundane as spiders.

“Sit with me,” she said, walking towards the base of the tree. The grass was damp, but he leaned against the trunk beside her anyways. He could make out her features in the darkness, especially her slightly pointed nose. When he’d first met her, he felt she had an air of superiority about her. Years later he saw the truth: maybe she was a little superior to the rest of them, without meaning to be. But it wasn’t because of her natural intelligence at all. Her bravery, her kindness, her perceptive abilities all made her unique to everyone else. Even their best friend, the chosen one.

“I have nightmares too, sometimes.” she said. Especially when I’m with my parents. I imagine them being killed, or you and Harry dying.”

“I know Harry has nightmares, horrible ones.”

Hermione grimaced. “I’m not sure we can even imagine how bad his are.” A soft breeze chilled the air blowing curls of Hermione’s hair into his face, and Hermione stepped closer until they were shoulder to shoulder. They stared at the Burrow together for a moment; Ron could feel nothing besides the slight pressure of Hermione standing against him.

“I think I’m happier here than I’ve ever been,” she whispered, almost too low for him to hear. 

“I am too,” he replied. 

“When I’m at home, with mom and dad, I don’t feel like myself anymore. I’m just pretending. When I see my old friends, I’m so behind on everything they talk about…. I’m not one of them anymore. I try to explain things to my parents but….”

“You’re a witch,” Ron said. “Course you’re going to feel better with us.”

She smiled. “Guess so.”

“I can’t really understand,” Ron said. “The muggle world seems more confusing than ours sometimes. I can’t imagine what it’s like having to deal with both.”

“It’s hard to wrap my head around,” she said. “But I’m lucky; I have twice as much to learn. If you’re a muggle, there’s a whole world you have no idea that exists.”

“Of course you’re thinking about learning. Not, y’know, being able to do magic.”

She laughed quietly. “Well yeah, that too.”

“If you were a muggle, you wouldn’t have to worry about--”

“--That’s what drives me crazy,” Hermione said. “They have no idea. They don’t even know that there’s a soulless fascist who wants to conquer Earth, who’s more powerful than they could imagine. And even if they knew, what could they do?”

“I haven’t even…. thought about that.” 

“It’s agonizing. I don’t like lying to my parents, pretending as if Hogwarts is the safest place on Earth.”

“No lies here,” Ron said. They fell silent, the only sound was the rustle of leaves and tall grass. He almost pulled away in surprise as her hand found his; he stayed frozen in place as her nimble fingers pushed themselves between his own. Finally his hand molded itself to hers. He could feel the bump where her quill rested on her middle finger and the soft pads of her fingers resting against the back of his hand. It felt as though a current of magic flowed from her skin into his body, as if her power was strong enough to influence his own. Hermione was the greatest witch he’d ever met; she didn’t even know what she was capable of.

“We’ll fix it all,” Hermione said. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

“Us?”

“Who else?”

“‘Course we will. We’ll do it together.”

She squeezed his hand in response. _How could their universe deny the words of Hermione Granger?_

**Author's Note:**

> Transphobia is evil and I don't support JK Rowling's bigotry. Thank you for reading <3 @newcathedrals on tumblr


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